


You're All I Have

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [27]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever said love and commitment were easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're All I Have

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Sex and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Zoot Suit Riot in this series.
> 
> Title courtesy of Snow Patrol. Thanks to Gissey and Amari Z for beta work and feedback.

_You're cinematic razor sharp_   
_A welcome arrow through the heart_   
_Under your skin feels like home_   
_Electric shocks on aching bones_

_Give me a chance to hold on_   
_Give me a chance to hold on_   
_Give me a chance to hold on_   
_Just give me something to hold onto_

 

 

The wind was hitting Arthur’s face, making his eyes tear slightly. He was riding with his visor up; there was absolutely no traffic and having the shield up made it easier to keep the earpieces from Lance’s iPod in his ears.

 

He felt only slightly guilty that he’d borrowed the other man’s player, but considering the time, he hoped Lance was asleep.

 

Their street was deserted as he turned the corner; the buzzing from the streetlamps was the only sound. Cutting the Triumph’s engine, Arthur pushed the bike the rest of the way up the driveway to the garage, which he opened with his remote. Thank God he’d remembered to oil the damn thing a few days ago, otherwise the neighbors would be awake along with any dogs in the vicinity.

 

The door slid smoothly down behind him, and he sighed as he removed his helmet, setting the bulky thing on the seat of his bike. The mp3 player he tucked in his shirt pocket. One of these days some designer was going to figure out a way to protect the human head from getting squashed like a pumpkin without having to wear what felt like a ten pound plastic weight on it. Thinking on that, Arthur turned a few ideas over in his head as he climbed the short stairs to his and Lancelot’s apartment.

 

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he clicked the door shut softly with his hand and tiptoed (hard to do in boots) down the hall. Damn – had he left the living room lights on?

 

“Where have you been, Arthur?"

 

_Shit_.  Lance's voice was rusty with sleep.  No longer needing to be quiet, Arthur clomped into the living room, eyeing Lancelot, who was lounging on the couch. Actually, he was curled into himself, a heavy blanket covering most of his body.  Lance stared back at him, eyebrows rising haughtily despite his pillow creased face. “I do tend to notice when you’re gone most of the night, Arthur. An hour, maybe not. But three? Yeah.”

 

Arthur pulled a face, and sat on the end of the couch. Lancelot moved his feet up under the blanket, and looked blearily at him. He rubbed at his face with the heels of his hands, which created an illusion of youth that made Arthur bite his lip.  He bent over, beginning the process of removing his heavy riding boots, only in small part to avoid looking at Lance's expression.

 

When he was finished, Lance still silent, Arthur sat back up, and put a hand tentatively on the other man’s leg, the wool covering it soft and fleecey. Lance didn’t pull away, which in Arthur’s book was a victory.

 

“I’m sorry if you worried,” he began, going for apologies. It wasn’t exactly nice to leave the house with no explanations in the middle of the night. But Arthur’s insomnia had been eating him alive for almost a week now, and he thought a ride might at least take his mind off it.

 

“You look like shit, Arthur,” Lance spoke, sigh in his voice. “Between school and working on the bike, and then no sleep, I’m surprised you can stand, much less drive.”

 

His hand appeared from under the blanket, and he twined his fingers in Arthur’s loosely. “I’m not worried about you leaving me here,” he smirked at that, “I’m worried about you trying to navigate down the road when you’re exhausted. I’d like not to have to see your smashed body at the morgue.” His expression drew into one of uncharacteristic tightness, lines appearing at the sides of his mouth.

 

Arthur grimaced. He toyed with Lance's fingers with his thumb, and then ran the digit down the other man’s palm, stroking gently. “That’s not something I want you to see, either. I won’t do anything stupid, believe me. Besides, when I go out late, there’s no traffic – the streets are practically ghost roads.” He leaned over, his free hand drawing the blanket back from Lance's other leg slightly. He began to draw absent patterns on the pale, smooth flesh.

 

“Mmm, that’s ni – hey! Who said you could borrow my radio?” Lance reached over and snatched the iPod out of Arthur’s pocket. He glared at the other man, looking highly affronted.

 

“You were asleep, remember?” Arthur laughed, squeezing Lance’s calf. “Don’t get all pissy.” He stood, divesting himself of his jacket and heavy pants. Tugging at Lancelot’s legs, he straightened them out, and jerked the blanket off him. Not surprisingly, Lance was wearing one of Arthur’s old shirts and nothing else – he made a sound remarkably like a squeak and grabbed for the blanket.

 

“I’m cold, you ass. Give that back,” he growled. Arthur tried to shush him.

 

“If you’ll wait a minute, you won’t be,” he explained, beginning to get chilly himself now that he was just clad in shirt and boxers. Luckily, the couch was relatively large and could fit the two of them, if a tad snuggly.  Arthur shoved Lance over, then slid onto the couch next to him. Wrapping his larger frame around Lance’s, he pulled the blanket back over the both of them.

 

“What the hell, Arthur?  The bed is bigger,” Lance groused, but smiled. After a moment of twisting, he got himself situated and stuck his head under Arthur’s chin. His arms went around Arthur, and he breathed happily.

 

After a moment, he pulled back in order to see Arthur’s face.  “Can you sleep?” he asked quietly.  Arthur’s eyes had been in the process of closing, but he opened them again to meet Lancelot’s concerned gaze.

 

He tried to smile reassuringly. “I’ll be fine.”  Lance moved one of his hands, and touched Arthur’s jaw with his fingers. He raised it further, threading them into Arthur’s hair. He rubbed delicately, knowing Arthur had a weakness for anyone touching his head.

 

Arthur’s smile disappeared, his expression sharpening with growing desire, and he tilted his head, his lips meeting Lancelot’s slowly.  Lance’s hand gripped at Arthur’s hair, his eyes sliding closed, his body molding effortlessly onto Arthur’s.

 

They broke apart, and Arthur rested his cheek on Lance's curls. He didn’t say anything, but Lance could feel the tension in Arthur's muscles. He snuggled his body more tightly around Arthur’s, and tried to will relaxation into the other man.

 

“Sleep, love,” he murmured at last, a yawn almost distorting his words beyond recognition. “I’m here. Got you.” He quieted down, breathing evening out.

 

Arthur smiled to himself as he realized what Lance had just called him.

 

*

 

Arthur awoke to a strange noise and a pain in his side. He grumbled and tried to ignore it, but the pain only increased. Finally he cracked an eye open.

 

“Get – off – me, you lummox,” Lancelot grated, trying to shove Arthur off of his smaller body. With Arthur relaxed, Lance was able to knock the bigger man onto his ass on the ground next to the couch. Arthur frowned up at him, blinking in the bright morning light.

 

“All you had to do was ask,” he said tetchily. “I’m not that heavy.”

 

“No,” Lance agreed, “but you are almost impossible to wake. I’m late – will you put coffee on?”

 

The last he shouted over his shoulder as he raced off down the hall toward the shower. Normally Arthur would be inclined to try and join him, especially after being treated to the sight of Lancelot’s rather nice bare ass as he had gotten up. However, considering Arthur’d gotten about three hours of sleep, he decided he need caffeine more than he did sex.  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he stumbled to the kitchen and set about making breakfast.

 

*

 

Arthur tried not to laugh at the image Lance presented as he returned from getting dressed. The other man was holding some papers in his mouth as he struggled with his shoes, his shirt buttoned halfway.  His hair looked impeccable, though, and Arthur could tell he’d shaved.

 

“Caffeine,” he gasped as he yanked the paper out from between his lips. “Ow! Fuck,” he griped, rubbing at his mouth. “That hurt.”  Arthur did laugh then. “What’s so funny? It’s not as if you’ve never been late before, you know. I have a huge test in about – shit, what time is it?”

 

Arthur looked at the wall clock. “Eight thirty. What test? Did you study?” He frowned as he handed Lance some coffee in a take away mug – Arthur wasn’t quite as stupid as he appeared sometimes.

 

“Eight thirty? Shit!” Lance shrieked the obscenity and threw his papers into his bag, which sat by the front door, and slugged down some coffee. He finished getting his shoes on, and grabbed for his keys.

 

“Lance.”

 

The younger man whipped his head around, his sunglasses blocking his eyes from Arthur. “Arthur, what? I’m not gonna make it at this rate.”

 

Arthur nodded toward Lancelot’s chest. “Your shirt’s undone.”

 

“Fuck,” the younger man growled, fixed his buttons, and ran out the door. Arthur cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the sound of either screeching tires or blowing horns as Lancelot was sure to have to race to his car parked down the crowded block.

 

The door flew back open, and Arthur startled as Lance threw his arms around Arthur’s neck. He planted a huge kiss on Arthur before racing back outside.

 

Arthur smiled, a massive, toothy affair, his hand rising to touch his lips, the taste of coffee and the strange bitter tang of patchouli oil on his mouth.

 

*

 

Thanking God that his first class was at eleven, Arthur took a leisurely shower and got dressed slowly, pulling on jeans and a sweater that Lance had given him on his last birthday. Despite the outrageous price tag – not like the other man had to pay attention – Arthur secretly liked it. Normally Lancelot’s taste was way too bright for Arthur, but this particular one was acceptable.  After locking the doors, he made his way to the garage, tugged on his helmet, and roared off towards campus. They didn’t live that far, but Arthur liked being able to zip across the university grounds, the fun of the bike winning out of the more economical choice of walking.

 

The day was nice, not too hot, and after making it through his two classes (boring professors but interesting subjects), Arthur took his book bag and a cappuccino to the Japanese fountain in the middle of campus.  It was new and beautifully designed; there was plenty of shaded seating and tables and the fountain itself burbled happily as if it too were enjoying the outdoors.

 

He saw two acquaintances of Lance's that were seated in the grass by an empty table, and after nodding at them, took the table for himself. He dragged his textbooks out of his bag, slipped his sunglasses on, and settled in for serious studying. Due to his lack of sleep, he’d been neglecting his schoolwork, but that would have to change if he expected to pass his classes this semester.  He became engrossed in the study of early forensics, the case history on Jack the Ripper being one of his favorites despite its truly disturbing details, so he almost didn’t catch the words coming from the two guys seated on the ground.

 

“…he’s been preoccupied. Says his father keeps trying to contact him, but he’s refused up until now. He’s actually been telling the old man he’s living at the frat house.”

 

A laugh from one of the men was what made Arthur look up. They weren’t looking at him; rather, they were deeply interested in what the other was saying. Arthur almost went back to reading, but stopped when he heard the next comment.

 

“And he believed him? Damn, those Benoit kids can run circles around their dad. I wish mine was so accommodating.”

 

“I don’t think he’s accomodating – I think he’s just being indulgent. Guinevere’s always been the good one – but Lance is the heir, from what I’ve heard. For some reason Roland will let Lance do whatever, which includes living with someone. And this is the clincher.”  The guy speaking looked at the one listening. “Not only is the person Lance living with someone he went to high school with – it’s another man. Which in and of itself is not a big deal – but supposedly this guy? Son of a cop.”

 

Arthur had to refrain from getting up and grabbing the two idiots by their collars, shaking them until their teeth clacked together. He looked down at his hands, which were clenched into fists, the knuckles white. How in the shit did these guys know all this?

 

There was only one way they could.

 

The two men were still speaking. One of them whistled. “Damn. I knew Lance had balls, but fucking a cop’s kid? Is he just a slut, or does he not care what his father does for a living?”

 

Arthur banged his textbook shut, and the two gossipers finally looked up at him. They smiled calmly and bent their heads back together, this time talking too quietly for Arthur to hear.  He wasn’t sure if he could process anything more anyway – his vision had become spotty, and his throat was closed with anger.  Was Lancelot telling just anyone his life story?

 

Arthur stood shakily, and shoved his books in his bag. Grabbing up his bag, he strode the quarter mile to where he had left his bike. He yanked his helmet on with trembling fingers, strapped his bag back down into its normal spot, and tore out of the lot, scattering pedestrians and birds as he left the campus.

 

*

 

Lancelot sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, his shirt buttons askew and his shoes off. The beer he was nursing was warm, but truthfully he’d had enough.  His mood hadn’t been exactly improved by the alcohol – but he’d been put in a hazy frame of mind by it, so it had been worth drinking.  His mobile rang again, and after squinting at the number, he cursed and pushed the silence button.

 

He’d already talked to his father twice today, and he refused to even think the man’s name anymore, much less speak to him. They’d had a lovely row in reference to almost everything Lance was doing – his life, his schooling, his friends, Guin.

 

And Arthur, which Lance hadn’t expected.

 

Groaning softly, Lance rubbed at his temples, trying to get the pounding headache he’d had since the afternoon (actually since his test) to go away, or at least lessen. No such luck.  He didn’t remember Roland ever being so angry with him. Granted, Lance hadn’t been trying really hard at his lie, but the fact that his father had found out so easily where and with whom Lancelot was cohabitating – that was worrisome.  He’d tried to get hold of his sister after the argument, but her phone had gone straight to voicemail each time. He’d left two short, rude messages, and figured that was all he could do for now.

 

His father hadn’t seemed to care much that Arthur was a man. Rather, his most vehement anger had been at the fact that Arthur was Uther Castus’ son – a man who had taken down or put behind bars many men who had previously been employed by Benoit International. Uther hadn’t been dead long, but the memory of the man’s actions still irked Roland, and he had been incensed that the Arthur his son and daughter had been friends with since high school was kin to one of his most hated enemies.  The fact that Lance was having a relationship with Arthur – fucking him, as Lancelot’s father had so crudely put it – had escaped Roland’s notice for longer than Lance had thought it would. He was lucky they hadn’t had this argument before.

 

His father hadn’t out and out told Lancelot he had to stop seeing Arthur, but he had hinted that things could go badly for him and Lance if things didn’t change. Lance had laughed in Roland’s face, and then had stomped out of his father’s plush office, ignoring the shouts of anger coming after him.

 

That was the first time Lancelot had tried to call Guin; the message he’d left had been sharp and to the point. He and his sister had been discussing things for a few months now – Lance didn’t have many other real friends, and he had to unload to someone. He thought he could trust Guinevere for sure.  He shook his head, fingers slipping into his hair. He should have fucking known. Her feelings for Arthur were blatant – she had probably blabbed to Roland the second Lance had told her what was actually going on.

 

“Bitch,” he growled, and drained the last of his beer. Standing, he chucked it into the recycling bin and was satisfied by the crunch of the compactor.

 

He tripped over one of his shoes, and stumbled to the couch, where the blanket he and Arthur had used the previous night still lay. He flopped onto the furniture, and curled up under the blanket, still able to smell the scent of the other man. His eyes burned and he swallowed hard.   _Nothing comes easy, does it? Love someone, hurt them, hurt yourself._

 

The real problem was, though, Lancelot didn’t just love Arthur. Arthur was everything that meant anything to him. Arthur was his everything, his anything, and nothing else mattered to Lance besides Arthur and his happiness.   _Fuck_.  He closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the ache in his chest that had begun to accompany his pounding head.

 

Lance jerked awake at the sound of the garage door slamming. He rubbed his face with his hands, and leaned over to look at the kitchen wall clock.

 

“God damn, Arthur Castus, you better have a good fucking –” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. He stood as Arthur entered the room, and then shut his mouth.  His temper rose, twisting inside like a flame. He began to tremble. Stalking to Arthur, who was still standing immobile at the edge of the living room, he ground his teeth and clenched his hands into fists.

 

“What. The. Fuck.”

 

Arthur stared at him, his own anger flaring briefly to meet the heat that was pouring from Lance. Arthur’s face was scraped in about four places, and the first two fingers on his right hand were taped together.  Lancelot’s eyes darted over Arthur’s form, the searing gaze seemingly unable to focus on any one thing, until Arthur slid his leather jacket off uncomfortably, revealing a long stitched and patched line on his left forearm.

 

“What. The fuck did you do?”

 

Lance’s voice sounded exactly like a snake’s would if it could speak. His breathing was coming in heavy gasps, the sound raw and hurting Arthur’s ears. The other man moved closer to Arthur, until he was barely an inch from him.

 

“Arthur. Tell me you didn’t get in a fight.”

 

Arthur pressed his lips together until they were one thin line. “I didn’t get in a fight.”

 

“Is that the truth?” Lance asked, his arms folding, his voice dangerously low. His eyes seemed to glitter and sparkle, and his brows drew together over them.

 

“I got in a wreck.”

 

Lance gaped at Arthur for a moment, until Arthur moved and limped slowly to the table, where he sat, feeling creaky and old. His jacket he left laying on the floor.  Lance shut his eyes, trying to breathe as images of Arthur’s body splattered on the road filled his mind. His green eyes, so full of life and fire, love, passion, and spirit, stilled and blank, staring forever at nothing.

 

“You – son of a bitch. You asshole. You – what the fuck happened????” Lance practically screamed the last word as he turned to follow Arthur to the table. “You got in a wreck? Just that simple???”  He felt slightly bad for yelling when he got a glimpse of Arthur’s face, which was white and pinched, but then he caught sight of the stitched place on Arthur’s arm again, and his anger got the better of him.

 

“Arthur! For the love of God, you told me you were careful! What if you had been killed? What if you had been put in a coma, or had your head ripped off? What if you had lost your legs, or your arms? What if you had left me alone???”  Somewhere around the second “what if” Lancelot had begun to feel scalding tears dripping down his face, his nose running along with them, but he didn’t care.  The only thing he cared about was the fact that Arthur could have died. Could have died! And left Lancelot alone. Alone, with his big, empty family. Alone, with his cold sister, his indifferent father, alone with no warm hands to hold his or arms to shelter him when everything was too much to take. No Arthur.

 

Arthur didn’t look at him. He was staring at the table, his expression blank and impassive.

 

“Did you tell your friends you were lying to your dad about where you lived?”

 

Lance had to shake his head and sit. He didn’t understand what Arthur was talking about. “Say that again,” he commanded, wetness and snot on his mouth making it hard for him to speak. He grabbed a random napkin and wiped at his skin.

 

“Did you tell your friends you were lying to your dad about where you lived?” Arthur repeated, his tone the same as before. Flat. Broken.

 

“What? What friends? What the fuck are you talking about, Arthur?” Lance was well and truly confused. He wiped his face again, got his breathing somewhat under control and grabbed Arthur’s uninjured arm. Arthur finally looked at him, and Lance growled, his face contorting with the effort to not sob or scream again.  “Arthur – God! Please. What in the hell are you talking about?” he pled, his grip on Arthur’s arm almost unbreakable. Arthur blinked slowly, owlishly. Lance had to bite the inside of his cheek in order not to hit the other man. He hated feeling like this – powerless. Unable to change anything. That was enough to get his anger going again.

 

“I was at school, studying. I sat next to some guys you know. I overheard them, talking about you and me – they didn’t know who I was, I guess. They said you were playing your dad. That you had told him you were living at the frat house – and that he was too stupid to see it for the lie it was.”

 

Lance blinked this time, trying to absorb the things Arthur had just told him. He shot a short breath out of his nose, and attempted to think. “Who, Arthur? What guys?”

 

Arthur shook his head, some life beginning to creep back into his voice and face. “I don’t remember. Some guys that we met when we ran into Gwen at the Bean a few weeks ago. Cedric? Cyril?”

 

“Cynric,” Lancelot whispered, his eyes darkening, lines showing up sharply next to his mouth. “That shithead. I’ll murder him and Guin for this.”

 

Arthur blinked again, and sat up straighter. His demeanor was rapidly becoming more normal, for which Lance wasn’t sure he should be grateful. “Yes, that’s it. He was with some other guy I’ve seen maybe once or twice.” He turned his gaze on Lance, and Lance wanted to shrink under the table and melt away.

 

“Lancelot – why? Why’d you lie to Roland about us? And then tell perfect strangers about it?” Arthur’s hands were gripping themselves, the new grazes on them showing starkly, his taped fingers sticking out awkwardly. His words sounded as if they were coming from a child who’d just been told there was no Santa Claus.

 

“I didn’t. Arthur – you have to believe me,” Lance said, his words slow and methodical. Arthur cocked his head, and rolled his lips together. Lance wanted to die on the spot – only after killing his sister as well.

 

“Arthur,” Lance continued, loosening his grip on the other man’s arm, “Arthur. Look at me.” He waited until Arthur obeyed, and stared into his red eyes. “I … okay. I did lie to Roland. I didn’t think you’d care. I’ve been talking to Guin because I wasn’t sure what to do – he’s been pressuring me about my future.” He practically spat the last word, face twisting, hands rising and forming quote marks in the air. “I hadn’t told him the truth about us because I thought he’d … I don’t know, not get it. Not get us. You know how he is, I’m his son for Christ’s sake, and he barely understands a word I say.”  Lance knew he was babbling, but he plowed on. Arthur was still watching him, the look on his face making Lance feel chilly. “I did not, however, tell anyone other than Guin. I don’t know how in the fuck some random guys she knows found out – actually,” he corrected, dark blotches of red flushing his cheeks, “I have a feeling I do know how.”

 

“Why, though, Lancelot? Why would she tell anyone? And why didn’t you talk to me about this? Considering it’s me in the center, my fault you’re having problems with your father, yet again,” Arthur interrupted, voice finally showing his emotions. His tone was deep, almost a snarl, and he moved back slightly from Lance, his chair scraping the floor.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Lance protested, leaning forward, trying to reach for the other man. Arthur jerked out of his way as if burned. “Arthur, please. I’m sorry, truly sorry I didn’t talk to you about this. It’s just – you know how Roland gets! If he wants something, it’s his way or the highway. I didn’t want him to interfere in my life anymore. I finally have something good.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work. “Something I can be proud of, and the way he is? He’d twist it into just some ‘phase’ he thought I was going through. I can’t explain it to him. He’s been married three times, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t understand love.”

 

Arthur stood, limping slowly backward toward the hall, his eyes on Lance, his stitched arm held near his chest. “So you’re saying you can’t tell your father where you live or what you’re doing because you’re living with, number one, another man, and number two, the man whose father basically busted his organization. And instead of talking to me, the person who’s got you all confused,” he mocked the other man's air quote gesture, even though he knew Lance would find it belittling – actually, because he would find it belittling. “Instead of me, you turn to your sister. Who hasn’t been super honest the whole time I’ve known her. With me or you.”

 

Lance thought his head might explode from the pounding. Why wasn’t Arthur seeing what he was saying? It had nothing to do with him, for fuck’s sake. He stood and followed Arthur to the hallway entrance. Scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand, he slumped his shoulders, not sure what else he should say.  “No. Arthur, you’re making it sound like I hide shit from you all the time. I wouldn’t do that – I love you! Come on, you’ve known me forever. I can’t hide anything from you. You’re the only one I can’t. Why do you care what Roland knows or doesn’t? It’s not like he’s going to come over here and force you to move or something,” Lance said, a hysterical laugh breaking free. “I’m pissed he found out the truth so fast. It’s easier if he just thinks I’m doing what he wants,” he tried to soothe, moving to put his hand on Arthur’s arm again.

 

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Arthur gritted through his teeth. “You have no idea what I’m really like, or what’s important to me. And that just means you don’t know me at all.” His throat ached from the huge lump he kept trying to swallow around. “Christ, Lancelot. I thought you understood me. You’re the only one who did. And now I find out you’re just like anyone else. Whatever’s easiest. What works quickest. ‘I want what I want when I want it’ – despite the consequences or anyone else’s convictions or ideals.”

 

Lance took a step back, his body freezing, his expression rigid. This was worse, way worse, than any kind of physical fight they’d ever had.

 

“I do know you,” he whispered, so quietly Arthur could barely hear him over the air conditioning. “I know that I love you.”

 

Arthur bit his lip, his eyes tearing. “Yeah? Well, apparently that’s not enough for you.” He turned on his heel, moving as quickly as his injuries would allow him, and entered his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

Lance stayed where he was, unable to understand just what exactly had happened. How had one little lie to his father of all people gotten Arthur so hideously, horribly upset? What did it matter what Roland believed? Arthur was deluding himself if he thought Lancelot’s father wasn’t going to stir up trouble for both of them now.  He sunk to his knees, leaning against the back of the couch. Putting out a hand blindly, he hit soft leather, and turned his gaze on Arthur’s jacket.  Instead of letting loose the scream of rage he wanted to release, he shoved his knuckles in his mouth and bit down, dragging Arthur’s jacket to him with the other hand. He clutched the thing like a security blanket, and remained sitting on the floor, eyes trained on Arthur’s door, determined to catch the other man when he came out.

 

He’d make this right. He would. Nothing meant anything without Arthur in his life, and he be damned if he’d let Arthur leave the house or go around for any longer without understanding.

 

Then – he’d find Guinevere, and put the fear of God into her.

 

He fell asleep there, head slumping against Arthur’s jacket, face blotchy and red. His headache returned with a vengeance, but he ignored it.

 

That pain was nothing compared to how he felt inside – in his gut, his heart, and the all places that Arthur normally filled.

 

*

 

 

Arthur woke a few hours later, when the sun was just beginning to tinge the horizon with pink. His fingers hurt, his legs ached, the scratches on his face were stinging and raw, and his stitches were already about to drive him mad.  Such a stupid thing, really. He’d been so angry at what he’d overheard and what he’d thought Lancelot had done that he’d totally ignored the stop sign he knew from memory was there – it had been his fault.

 

The car he’d collided with was mostly fine, the bumper crunched and one headlight broken. The driver was a teenage boy whom Arthur thought he’d scared for the rest of his life – he was sure the kid was going to throw up when he saw that Arthur was bleeding.  The ambulance and police had come quickly, and Arthur had managed to get a hold of Gawain from the ER. Gawain had picked him up, only chided him slightly about letting his bike get out of his control, and had returned for the Triumph after dropping Arthur off at home.  Gawain, being who he was, hadn’t asked Arthur why he hadn’t called Lance to pick him up. He’d merely told Arthur he’d take the bike directly to the shop, and call Arthur tomorrow.

 

Thanking God for a few good friends, Arthur had agreed and waved as the other man had driven off.

 

He sat up in bed, rubbing his face gently, his head pounding and his stomach burning like it would if he’d had too much to drink.  Standing, he limped to his door and opened it, bracing himself for an immediate argument. Casting his eyes about, he sighed inwardly when he didn’t see Lance right away.  As he turned to head toward the bathroom, he caught sight of tousled hair, and reversed his direction. He walked down the hall, and stopped by the couch.

 

Lancelot lay on his side behind the piece of furniture, eyes closed and breathing even. He was clutching Arthur’s leather jacket, and there were black smudges under his lashes. He looked worn out even in sleep.  Arthur watched him, torn between the anger that still boiled, and infinite sorrow at the sight of his best friend and lover lying on the ground where he’d left him the previous night.

 

His face screwed up, and he reached out a hand, as if to shake Lance awake. As he did, Lance mumbled, and turned over slightly. Arthur jerked his hand back, then turned back for the shower.

 

He wasn’t quite ready to talk.

 

*

 

Guinevere was flopped on her bed in Beyschner hall, books spread in front of her, when a loud knock made her jerk.  “Jeez, coming,” she yelled, “relax, for god's sake.”  She undid the bolt and her brother barged in past her, slamming the door behind him. Raising an eyebrow, Guin crossed her arms over her chest. Lancelot sat on her bed, fidgeted, then stood, staring at her.

 

“Well, darling, you look like hell,” she said, moving to her desk. “Bad coke down at the club?”

 

“Fuck off, Guin,” Lance snarled. “I don’t do that and you know it. Quit trying to change the subject.”

 

“Brother dear,” she sighed, sitting down, “you haven’t begun a subject. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

 

“Why did you blab everything I’ve been telling you to your friends?”

 

Guinevere sat back, her manicured fingers tapping at her chin. “What everything? You’ve told me a lot,” she said slowly. “I have a hard time keeping your secrets straight, Lance.”

 

“God!” Lance snapped at her. “You’re being a fucking bitch. What the hell? I trusted you,” he advanced on her, but to her credit, she stayed exactly where she was. “I trusted you and you told your stupid friends and now Arthur knows. He knows I’ve been lying to Dad, and he thinks I’m the one telling everyone but him.”

 

Guin waited, knowing he wasn’t finished.

 

“Aside from the fact that I got to have a really fun conversation with Roland yesterday about all this,” Lancelot continued, his mouth twisting in a smirk, an ugly reflection of his normal expression. “He was very interested to know the Arthur I’m “fucking” is the son of Uther Castus, and the selfsame Arthur that you and I have been friends with for years. He actually asked me if I had known about Arthur’s father’s job for longer than he had. What a dick. Guinevere,” he pinned her with his gaze, “I told you all this shit because I needed someone to unload on. I didn’t want to tell Arthur. He doesn’t need any more mindless crap to worry about. Why would he care what Roland thinks about us? It only hurts Arthur. Not me. I couldn’t give a crap what Dad thinks about me. But you know how Arthur is.”

 

Guin crossed her legs, and then uncrossed them. She had the smarts at least to look chagrinned. “Yes, Lancelot. I know how he is. But – I also didn’t know you hadn’t told him. You conveniently left that part out. And as for Dad, well, he asked me what you were doing. Unlike some people, I don’t make it a point to lie,” she tilted her head, threading her fingers together.

 

Lance barked a rough laugh and turned around, sitting on Guin's bed. He sighed shakily and ran a hand through his hair. “You are such a hypocrite. I’m sure you had some other reason to talk to Dad.”

 

They stared at each other, both waiting for the other to draw the second round of blood. At last Lancelot leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You’ve loved Arthur for years, Guinevere.”

 

She merely bit her lip, not responding.

 

“He’ll never leave me. Not for you, at any rate.”

 

“What makes you so god damn special?” she hissed in reply. “You’re a cocktease, vain, and completely the most self-centered person I’ve ever met. Why do you have to have everything I want? Why him too?”  Lance stood, and moved to her door, opening it. “Because, you idiot, I love him. I don’t need another reason.” He shook his head, his hands aching to slap her, but he stared at her door and breathed until the urge passed.

 

He made to leave, then hesitated. “We don’t have much in this life except each other, Guin,” he said, an uncommonly tired tone creeping into his voice. “You’ve proven to me that that doesn’t matter to you. Leave me and Arthur alone.”  He exited her room, and shut the door gently.

 

Guinevere stayed seated at her desk, worrying her bottom lip. She was certain she’d never seen her brother that agitated about anything before. Maybe he really did love –

 

No. Lancelot Benoit, love anyone besides himself? Unheard of.

 

She got up then, and crossed to her purse and dragged her mobile out of it. She dialed and waited.

 

“Dad? Hi, it’s Guin. Listen, you were asking about Lance the other day? I forgot to tell you something.”

 

*

 

Arthur’s bike was gone when Lancelot returned home after class, the apartment clean and still. He looked in the garage, in the other man’s room, and finally risked calling Arthur’s mobile, which Lance found buried in the couch cushions after hearing it’s faint ring.  He angrily chucked the thing onto Arthur’s bed and sat at the table, chin in his hand.

 

He glanced out the window. He smacked himself on the forehead as an idea suddenly came to him, and he grabbed his keys, flying out of the house as he ran for the car.

 

*

 

The sun was lovely, presenting a spectacular picture of stereotypical Southern California beauty as it set over the Pacific. Arthur kicked his legs back and forth as he sat on the end of the pier, his boots lying on the wood planks next to him. He rested his weight against one of the posts that held the thing over the water, and tried not to think too much, which was always a loosing battle for him.  

His bike had been barely scratched somehow in his accident, his body taking most of the impact. He had been somewhat afraid to get back on the Triumph, but in the end he had, taking the short ride to the beach much more slowly than he normally did.  His bruises were fading, and he had removed the tape from his fingers the previous day. His arm was still stitched, but the doctor had told him they were the kind of stitches that dissolved, so he wasn’t worried about them. He’d have a pretty cool scar for the rest of his life – he laughed to himself at that thought.

 

He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and he ran his hand over his face, the heavy stubble feeling strangely good. It was freeing to not have to worry about his appearance for once. Not that Lancelot cared what Arthur looked like, but –

 

He and Lancelot had barely spoken two words to each other since their fight – Arthur studying at the Coffee Bean down the way from their apartment, or at school, Lance doing God knew what elsewhere. Arthur found he didn’t want know what the other man was getting up to without Arthur around.  He knew they couldn’t go forever without speaking, or at least without coming to some kind of truce, but in truth he didn’t know how to go about starting that conversation. He sighed, shaking his head at his stupidity, when footsteps on the pier drew him from his mental flagellation.  He unconsciously clenched his hands into fists, and waited for the tirade he expected.

 

When none came, he looked up, squinting into the setting sun.  Lance sat down heavily next to him, staring at the water. He began to swing his feet like Arthur had been doing a moment before, and he still kept his mouth shut.

 

Arthur watched him for a bit, and then kicked his own feet again. They sat that way until the golden glow on the horizon was all that was left of the sunset.

 

“Nice,” Lancelot said quietly. “Feels good out here.”

 

Arthur chanced a glance at him again, and noted that Lance was wearing unusually shleppy clothing; he had on loose cotton pants and what looked like one of Arthur’s cast off tshirts. He hadn’t shaved apparently either, and the hair on his face was filling in the spots left bare by his goatee.  Arthur found he wanted to touch the new growth and see how soft it was.  

Normally, he would have chided himself; he and Lancelot were fighting, after all. Serious stuff, too.  However, he found he didn’t care what he did normally.

 

He raised his hand and cupped one side of Lance’s face, his thumb brushing the skin under Lance’s cheekbone. He ran the digit over and over the other man’s cheek, the downy, slight beard feeling as soft as he had thought it would.  

Lance was sitting starkly still; he was afraid if he moved, Arthur would stop touching him. If that happened, he had decided he would just leap into the water and shock Arthur into doing something other than hating him silently.  After a moment he turned his face into the palm of Arthur’s hand, his eyes briefly closing. The skin of the hand was warm, and smelled so familiar that it brought a rush of tears to Lancelot’s eyes he hadn’t expected or wanted.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Arthur spoke at last, having to clear his throat. “Don’t, Lancelot.”

 

Lance’s eyes closed again, if only to hide the emotion from Arthur. He didn’t correct the other man on his use of Lance’s full name.

 

He kept them closed until Arthur’s hand moved away from his cheek, and wound its way around his waist. He allowed Arthur to tug him gently toward him, Lance’s eyes on the vast, dark ocean.  

Arthur was certain this was the first time they’d resolved – ignored – a fight this way. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to discuss Lance’s dishonesty. He wanted his friend and the person he loved to just be that person he loved, without Arthur having to explain why he had been so upset by the lies.

 

For his part, Lancelot had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth. He turned to Arthur, and buried his face in Arthur’s neck, not speaking, just breathing the scent of home.  He disregarded the voice in his head that sighed in relief over the fact that he didn’t have to discuss his actions or motivations. He merely sat still and trembled, thankful that Arthur had decided for just this once to shut up and forgive Lance for being who he was.

 

In Lancelot’s book, that was a lot more than he deserved.


End file.
